Page 56 of Songbird
Rosie lifts her head, swiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, and I slump onto the pillows with a depleted sigh. She curls up beside me, and I scoop her up in the circle of my arms.
“That was nice,” she says as she wriggles closer.
“Nice?” I close my eyes and grin at the image of Rosie’s lips wrapped around my dick, a picture now permanently burned into my retinas. “That was fucking earth shattering.”
“Yeah?”
Her voice is delighted, and I chuckle. “Yeah.” I plant a kiss on her forehead. “I hope you’re happy, Songbird. I thought I was a mess for you before, but you’ve just gone and fucking ruined me for life.”
nineteen
Rosie
Westepontotheback porch of Finn’s family home, Finn with his guitar case, and I latch on to his forearm a split second before he opens the door.
“Are you sure I look okay?”
I glance down at my outfit, uncharacteristically nervous about what I’m wearing. It’s dinner at Finn’s house, not the GRAMMYs, but I usually have a stylist for these sorts of things. God help me if I’m snapped looking less than the Rosalie Thorne sky-high standard. I’ve seen the headlines.
Pop Princess braves the crowds with no makeup.
Sexy celebrity dresses down for drinks with friends.
Look at that frizz! Forget the blow-out—she’s just like us!
The press takes criticism and ridicule, dresses it up as girl power, and thinks we’re all too stupid to notice. It’s gross, but it makes money, and it’s the world I live in.
Finn scans me from head to toe, examining the tight white tank under the smallest flannel shirt I could find—rolled to my elbows and tied at the waist—my short denim cut-offs, and mywhite sneakers. The lust in his gaze sends a rush of heat to my cheeks and other inconvenient places.
“Stop it!” I admonish, and he stops my heart with that secretive smirk.
“You look good enough to eat,” he says, then dips his head to press his lips to the soft spot between my jaw and my ear that he likes so much. “And don’t think I won’t be doing that later.”
The flush in my face burns hotter, and I turn into his neck. “Nobody’s ever done that to me before.”
Finn straightens, the arousal in his eyes flaring into animalistic desire. “You really shouldn’t have told me that.”
My blood catches fire, sparking and rushing like liquid flames down my back and into my fingertips, warming my inner thighs and melting my core. “I—”
The door swings open and I jump away from Finn, a reflex response that makes me feel like a teenager caught kissing after curfew. Charlie is on the other side, and she greets us with a knowing grin.
“I thought I heard someone out here.” She swings the door open wider. “Come on in.”
“Hi, Charlie,” I say. “It’s nice to see you again. Thanks for having me.”
Finn takes my hand, and his eyes tighten ever so slightly, but Charlie reads his irritation easily enough. Her smile widens and a sparkle shines in her blue eyes.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly, but as he passes by his sister, he still drops an affectionate peck on her cheek.
Once we’re inside, the butterflies in my stomach start to spin a little differently, no longer fluttering with desire but anxiety. Finn’s brother may have accidentally revealed that Finn had never brought a girl home before, but I’ve never been the girl brought home either. Not like this. Chip’s parents are quintessential blue bloods from old money. Meeting them feltlike having dinner with overzealous investors, their approval predetermined by Chip’s good business sense and my status as rich and famous. Those were circumstances that proved, once again, that being a global icon gave me an easier path.
I don’t think those conditions apply here. At least, I hope they don’t. I want Finn’s family to likeme. The person not the pop star. It’s a micro kind of pressure I don’t face often anymore.
I let Finn lead me into the kitchen of his childhood home, and I’m embraced by the mouthwatering aroma of dinner in the oven and on the stove. Plates, bowls, and napkins are stacked on a serving sideboard, along with a pitcher of something pink next to frosted margarita glasses. The hardwood floors are worn, the kitchen lived-in but tidy, and the enormous timber dining table polished but scarred with years of history. Through the far doorway, I spy a living room with mismatched sofas and an oversized armchair, and a cold fireplace below a mantel littered with family photographs. The walls are cream, the windows clean and furnished with faded plaid drapes, and a staircase on the far side disappears into the top floor.
Soft plush rugs line the floors in there. It’s hard to miss how new those look compared to the aged decor everywhere else, but it all fits. It’s giving off cozy and comfortable, not dated and drab, and I immediately want to be like one of those rugs. A new addition, sure, and at first glance maybe a little out of place, but when you take a moment to measure one thing in relation to the others, you realize the new things just need time to become part of the final picture. Even now, on a second look at the space, I’m not so tripped up by the color of the rugs, and I wonder if maybe they weren’t here all along.
“This is it.” Finn gestures around the kitchen, then through the doorway to the adjoining living space. “Eat-in kitchen. Dining table—the location of choice for family dinners, family meetings, family fallouts. You know, the usual. Living room is throughthere. There’s a bathroom and a den on the other side of the hallway, and the porch wraps around… Oh, Jesus.” His fingers tighten around mine and I shift a little closer, instinctively seeking his protection. “I apologize in advance for whatever happens next.”
